


don't let it burn, don't let it fade

by leannerd



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst with a Happy Ending, Confessions, First Kiss, Gay Disaster Eddie Kaspbrak, Getting Together, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Prom, Slow Dancing, Soft Richie Tozier, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23421256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leannerd/pseuds/leannerd
Summary: Eddie goes to prom and regrets everything. Until he doesn't.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 84





	don't let it burn, don't let it fade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaspbrak-tozier89 (summercarntspel)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summercarntspel/gifts).



> This is a (slightly belated) birthday gift for the lovely and wonderful and amazingly talented Summer.
> 
> You've given me so much encouragement and inspiration in the short time I've known you, so I hope you like this little tribute to our two favorite boys.
> 
> Enjoy yourself some Angry Gay Feelings and Very Queer Dancing. As a treat. <3
> 
> For everyone else: I hope you also enjoy it! I've never written for these two dummies and IT isn't really my wheelhouse, despite how much love I have for all renditions of The Loser's Club, so your comments and criticism are welcome!

As the music echoes through the empty hallway Eddie is hunkered down in, he wonders, not for the first time that night, why he had agreed to come to prom. He had had no intention at all of being here tonight. The Plan was as follows: stay home, watch shitty tv, and take a nap until his friends (yes, even Stan) inevitably ended up drunk somewhere and needed to call him for a ride home. That would lead to plenty of bitching and moaning on both ends, but Eddie would then swipe his mom’s keys and sneak out to get them all home safely.

That was The Plan, goddammit, and he should have stuck to it.

Why couldn’t he have just stuck to The Fucking Plan?

Instead he’s here, sulking in an empty hallway off the side of the stuffy and garishly decorated gym (and what kind of cliche prom theme is Tropical Paradise, anyway?) dressed in an itchy gray tux and rental shoes that pinch his toes. He wonders how long it will be before one of the Losers breaks off from their dance marathon to come find him and drag him back to the gym. Or maybe they’re having too much fun, the six of them, without his anxiety-ridden, neurotic, asthmatic ass around. 

He doesn’t know which option is worse.

He’d made it a whole forty minutes before slipping out, excuses prepared but ultimately unnecessary, since the rest of his friends are wrapped up in a badly choreographed dance to a New Kids on the Block song. And while Ben’s enthusiasm and Stan’s distinct lack of rhythm are endearing and should make Eddie feel less self-conscious, there’s only so many times he can watch Richie playfully thread his fingers through Bev’s and spin her around or slip an arm around her waist to dip her before becoming physically ill. Not that Richie and Bev are there _together_ together. He knows Bev has never once looked at Richie as anything more than an annoying younger brother and for all his bluster, Richie’d never go after the girl Ben’s been head over heels for for the last four years. But that logic can only do so much when his gut is twisting painfully and he knows the throbbing behind his eyes has nothing to do with the pounding music.

And this is why it had been a bad idea from the start, why he should have stuck to The Fucking Plan. The realization that he is stupidly, stupidly, and (he can’t emphasize this enough) _stupidly_ in love with his best friend, Richie Fucking Trashmouth Tozier, had hit him like a freight train at the end of the previous summer and he’s spent the entire school year trying to figure out what to do with the information.

It makes no sense, after all. Not the gay thing- that makes _total_ sense. The Richie Thing, though...if he had to fall in love with any of the guys, why does it have to be the loudest, most disgusting, most immature of them all? With his vulgar jokes and constant attention-seeking, his atrocious fashion sense and his inability to just _shut the fuck up_ , it just...makes no sense.

And yet...

_And yet…_

When he thinks back on lazy afternoons in the hammock, Friday night sleepovers, the fond nicknames reserved for him and nobody else...it does kinda make sense. In a sick, twisted way. It’s almost inevitable. 

_Doesn’t make it any less stupid._

“There you are, Eduardo!”

_Ah, fuck._

Of course it has to be the object of his...whatever this is. ( _Affection_ feels too small of a word. _Infatuation_ feels too pathetic. _Bane of his existence_ seems appropriate.) Either way, it has to be Richie that comes to find him. It’s always Richie, always has been and always will be.

And of course he has to be standing there looking like that, all tall and broad and almost dashing in his black tux despite sporting a hideous tropical printed bow tie (“It’s on theme!” he had insisted as soon as Eddie had opened his mouth to comment on it) so reminiscent of the unsightly Hawaiian shirts that he, for some godforsaken reason, keeps fucking wearing.

_And yet…_

He feels a surge of affection so strong it hurts upon seeing that shit-eating grin and those thick glasses that make his dark eyes appear impossibly large and those wild, untamable curls. His cheeks are flush and he's sweating just a little and at some point he's lost the tux jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and Eddie's not sure when he started having a thing for forearms but he sure as shit knows he has a thing for _Richie's_ forearms-

"Whoa, who shit in your Cheerios?"

_Fucking hell._

Eddie clenches his fists against his thighs (his affection for Richie is always tinted with the urge to commit some great act of violence) and contorts his face into something a little less murderous and (he hopes) a little more apathetic. Fortunately, it's not too out of character for him to be staring at Richie like he wants to throttle that beautiful throat. And his range of expression is minimal at best, so his overlong glare at his best friend should be normal for Eddie and Richie standards.

Except for the part where Richie can read him like a goddamn book.

"Seriously, Eds,” Richie just grins and waves off Eddie’s indignant-on-principle huff at the nickname. “You're not planning on burning down the school tonight are you? Because I'm all about it, really, but could ya give it a couple more weeks because my mom will be pissed if I don't at least get my diploma first…" he trails off and crouches down next to Eddie, placing himself directly in his line of sight. His grin has slipped just a little, but his eyes are bright and clear even in the dimly lit hallway and Eddie suddenly feels too seen and too hidden all at once. 

"Bold of you to assume you're not gonna flunk out at the last minute."

"Why, Edward," Richie splays a hand over his heart, pitches his voice just a touch too high and affects a syrupy sweet southern accent, "are you worried about little 'ole me?"

“Oh, fuck off,” Eddie mutters, shoving Richie’s arm and causing him to lose his balance and fall on his ass. Not his best work, but better than nothing.

He’s just going to go ahead and ignore the way his palm burns where it was clenched maybe a touch too tightly around Richie’s forearm. He makes a show of wiping his hand on his pant leg with a grimace.

“Gross, you’re all sweaty.”

“Aw, come on, I thought you liked my manly musk!” Richie protests, scrabbling forward to nuzzle his sweaty forehead in the crook of Eddie’s neck. 

Eddie has never been more grateful for a dimly lit hallway in his life as the blood goes fucking _rushing_ up his neck and floods his cheeks and ears and he just knows he’s turning an impossible shade of red right now. His entire body goes rigid, every muscle screaming to run away, to pull Richie closer, to get out of there, to _just fucking kiss him already_. The back and forth between the smart thing to do and the thing he wants to do makes it impossible for him to do anything, so he just sits there like a dumbass until Richie pulls away with a frown, an expression that is so _wrong_ on Richie’s face. 

“Alright, what the fuck gives, Kaspbrak?”

His last name sounds odd, jarring, coming out of Richie’s mouth and it startles Eddie out of his trance like he’s been slapped.

“What?” Eddie chances a glance at Richie and immediately regrets it. It’s not often Richie looks serious, but he does now. His gaze is focused and his frown is slight, but still in place and, because Eddie can read Richie almost as well as Richie can read Eddie, he recognizes the hurt in his eyes. He usually keeps it buried with a joke or an impression or a Voice, but in the low light of the empty hallway it’s laid bare for Eddie to see.

He can’t tell if the thumping he hears is the music coming from the gym or his heart pounding in his chest.

“What do you mean, ‘what?’” Richie shifts so he’s once again fully in Eddie’s line of sight. Eddie lifts a shoulder in a poor imitation of nonchalance and Richie blows out an annoyed breath. “Dude, you’ve been fucking weird with me all year.” 

“I thought weird was our brand.” He tries playing dumb, but judging from the hard look on Richie’s face (and _fuck_ does that expression just look so wrong) it’s not going to work this time. Because Richie is right and, infuriatingly enough, he knows it. 

The summer had ended and so had the status quo of their relationship, at least on Eddie’s end. He realizes what an idiot he’s been to think that Richie wouldn’t notice the effort he’s put into putting a little distance between them. He’s tried being subtle, but christ fucking knows subtlety has never been his strong suit and Richie’s definitely not as dumb as he acts. 

But it’s been necessary, for his own sanity and to maintain any semblance of the relationship they’ve had up until now.

“Fucking _shit_.” Eddie draws his knees up to his chest and puts his head in his hands, unaware that he’s even spoken aloud until he hears Richie snort and his expression relaxes enough that it’s clear he thinks he’s won. He settles back against the wall next to Eddie, shoulder to shoulder--well, shoulder to upper arm, which is distracting in and of itself--and he’s overwhelmed. Somehow Richie’s touch, his mere _closeness_ makes Eddie feel simultaneously grounded and light as a feather, stable and floaty.

The effect is confusing and it pisses him off. He wants to punch something, but his upper body strength leaves much to be desired and he knows he’ll just end up hurting himself.

Richie takes Eddie’s wrists and gently tugs his hands away from his face and Eddies has to physically bite his tongue to keep from letting some embarrassing noise slip out when he sees how small his hands look in comparison to Richie’s. And it dawns on him that Richie doesn’t immediately let go and Eddie hasn’t pulled away yet and now it’s impossible to do so without being painfully awkward about the whole thing and, to tell the truth, for someone who is normally so touch-averse, he’s been starved for this casual physical contact with Richie and it’s overwhelming all his common sense.

So they sit there for a moment, Richie’s long fingers circled loosely around Eddie’s wrists. Eddie knows his pulse is fluttering wildly under Richie’s fingertips and he knows that Richie is fully aware of the erratic beating (he’s made Richie check his pulse too many times for him to not notice it immediately) but something in him must be broken because he just can't make himself pull away.

“Talk to me, Spagheds.” Richie’s voice cracks on the nickname, just a little, and Eddie’s heart cracks along with it. Because the whole time he’s been trying to keep himself safe, contained, protected, he’s been hurting Richie. And as much as that asshole pisses him off and pushes his buttons, the last thing Eddie wants is for him to hurt- especially when he knows he’s the reason why.

The thought of confessing right there flits through his mind, immediately followed up with a barrage of harsh voices screaming at him to keep his fucking mouth shut if he wants to keep Richie in his life in any capacity.

“Rich, I just...can’t,” he breathes, voice barely audible. He wants to explain, _fuck_ he wants to explain, but he absolutely fucking refuses to cry right now so he just clamps his mouth shut and presses his forehead to his knees.

“Fine,” Richie says, and drops Eddie’s wrists before standing. For a brief moment, Eddie feels a strange mixture of loss and relief as he thinks Richie’s about to turn around and head back to the gym, back to the prom, back to their friends.

Except he doesn’t leave. And when Eddie finally looks up, he’s standing there, hand outstretched, an unfamiliar smile on his face. He looks almost...shy? But that can’t be right. Trashmouth Tozier doesn’t know the meaning of the word.

“If you’re not gonna talk to me, you have to dance with me. Them’s the rules,” he says and Eddie stares, dumbfounded.

“Since fucking when?” he finally squeaks out, eyes flicking frantically between Richie’s hand and his face. Something in his voice has given him away (sheer panic, maybe?) because Richie’s grin widens and he waggles his eyebrows in a way that toes the line between suggestive and challenging. 

“C’mon, Spaghetti Head, you got three options. Dance, talk, or I drag your cute ass back in the gym and throw you in the middle of the Losers when ‘Don’t You Forget About Me’ starts playing.”

_Fuck._

Eddie decides that, given the three choices, dancing with Richie seems like the safest option. However, he realizes how truly fucking stupid that assumption is very quickly, as he reluctantly places his hand in Richie’s, once again marvelling at how small it looks, and is jerked to his feet and pulled bodily against Richie’s chest. A familiar guitar riff drifts down the empty hall and Richie snakes his hand around Eddie’s waist and holds him tight when he tries to take a step back and put some space between them and then the vocals start and they’re swaying and _oh fuck it’s a slow song..._

_If you, if you could return_  
_Don’t let it burn_  
_Don’t let it fade…_

Eddie’s mind races so fast that he’s unable to grasp at a single coherent thought. The swirl of emotions in his chest is borderline painful and he’s momentarily worried he’s going to have to pull out his inhaler just so he can _fucking breathe_.

But somehow...somehow...he wills his body to move with Richie’s and, aside from the impending panic attack, it’s _so fucking nice_. And he knows he’s being stupid, that there’s no way this can pan out, and he’s not even sure what Richie’s playing at right now, but god _damn_ if he hasn’t been craving this closeness and intimacy for the better part of a year. He’s so very, very tempted to close his eyes and press his cheek against Richie’s stupid, broad chest, wants nothing more than to press his ear against his heart and check if it’s beating as erratically as Eddie’s own.

“You’re not as subtle as you think you are, Eds.” Richie’s voice is low, teasing, and all of a sudden very close to his ear, pulling a shiver out of him before he can stop it. “It’s pretty cute.”

Eddie sucks in a harsh breath and pulls back, squinting up at Richie, suddenly furious and terrified. The line of tension running through his body all night finally snaps.

“Fuck... _you_ ,” he hisses, pressing a hand against Richie’s chest. He tries to wriggle out of his friend’s grasp, but _Christ_ Richie is strong when he wants to be. And Eddie’s long since accepted his fate of being tiny forever, but right now he’s real pissed about it, so he just keeps shoving one hand at Richie’s chest as though it will have any effect whatsoever. 

Richie, for his part, just tolerates Eddie’s struggling, much like a resigned parent waiting for their tantruming baby to tire themselves out. He’s laughing softly, a bemused look on his face and this only serves to further infuriate Eddie.

“What kind of fucking joke is this, Rich?” Eddie goes limp, resigns himself to the fact that Richie fucking _knows_ ; he knows and the last thread of hope Eddie’s held onto that Richie would just be okay with it has unravelled spectacularly and he’s lost the best friend he’s ever had because he just couldn’t keep his shit together.

_Was it just a game to you?_  
_But I’m in so deep_  
_You know I’m such a fool for you_  
_You’ve got me wrapped around your finger..._

Somehow they’re still swaying to the music. Well, Richie’s swaying and Eddie’s just sort of, allowing himself to be held up by Richie. Richie removes his hand from Eddie’s, allowing Eddie’s arm to fall uselessly at his side, and brings it up to cup Eddie’s jaw. And if Eddie thought his hand felt small in Richie’s hand, it’s nothing to the thrill he feels with those long fingers resting against the sensitive skin behind his ear and the heel of his hand under Eddie’s chin as he tilts Eddie’s face up.

_Do you have to, do you have to, do you have to let it linger?_

“I’m not joking, asshole,” Richie murmurs, his tone deadly serious, and before Eddie can react, he ducks his head and there are lips pressing against his and it’s not like he’s never thought about this, what it would be like, but the reality is so much the same and so different that he can’t wrap his head around what’s happening. Richie’s lips are a little chapped, but still soft. His mouth is gentle, but insistent. And his tongue is both cautious and teasing as it swipes at Eddie’s lips before retreating and oh... _oh_. 

Eddie wonders, not without a touch of jealousy, how much practice at this he’s had because it definitely doesn’t feel like it’s Richie’s first kiss but then again how would Eddie be a good judge of kissing technique when he himself has had exactly one awkward spin-the-bottle kiss in middle school. 

He’s generally not interested in the idea of swapping spit with just anyone, but this... _this_ is everything.

When they break apart and he opens his eyes (though he’s not entirely sure when they closed, to be honest), Richie is wearing the absolute _dumbest_ grin Eddie’s ever seen and that’s saying a lot because Richie kind of always looks a little dumb (not that Eddie will ever admit that’s one of the things he loves about him). But Eddie’s also sure he’s got no place to talk because he can feel the expression mirrored on his own traitorous face. He can feel the flush high on his cheeks and his lips are on fire and every nerve ending in his skin is absolutely _buzzing_ for more, more, more...

“You idiot!” Eddie finally finds words, as well as bodily autonomy, and slaps his hand against Richie’s chest, though he’s making no moves to escape the other’s grip this time. “You big, dumb idiot!” he all but shouts, and Richie is just laughing and laughing, drowning out Eddie’s agitated sputtering. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Richie finally wheezes through his laughter and Eddie relents, despite the fact that Richie does not, in fact, sound sorry in the slightest. Eddie gives him one last whack on the chest before settling down and allowing Richie to pull him back into his arms and continue their swaying.

_And I’m in so deep…_

“How long?” Eddie finally asks, voice muffled from where his face is finally, _finally_ pressed into Richie’s shoulder. 

He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to.

“Too long, Spaghetti.” 

_You’ve got me wrapped around your finger…_

“Why now?”

Richie chuckles, the sound rumbling pleasantly in his chest and Eddie leans into it. “Stan threatened me with bodily harm if I didn’t quote ‘quit pissing and moaning and do something about it’ end quote.”

"Stan knows?" Eddie's question isn't really a question, though, because _of course_ Stan knows.

"Don’t you know? Stan the Man knows everything, dude.” Richie hooks his finger under Eddie’s chin once again and tilts his head up to face him. Eddie mourns the loss of the solid chest and weirdly intoxicating and distinctly _Richie_ scent, but when he sees Richie staring down at him with borderline adoration in his eyes, he’s so very okay with it. “Hey, Eds? Sorry it took me so long. I mean, I wanted to be sure, you know? But you just kept not saying anything and a guy can only wait for so long before-”

_Do you have to let it linger…?_

Eddie cuts off Richie's rambling with a snort, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I guess you’ll just have to make it up to me, then.” 

He takes a brief moment to enjoy the way Richie’s eyes light up and that goofy, gorgeous grin spreads across his face before he reaches up to tug on that hideous bow tie and close the distance between them in another kiss, desperate enough to make up for lost time, but slow enough to make it clear that they’ve got plenty of time ahead of them.

_Do you have to, do you have to, do you have to let it linger?_


End file.
